


Thinking Too Much

by theslyknave



Category: Homestuck
Genre: Equidan if you squint, Humanstuck, M/M, Masturbation, just a self-indulgent little thing, semi-awkward masturbation time with equius!
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-04-14
Updated: 2013-04-14
Packaged: 2017-12-08 10:36:34
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,597
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/760395
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/theslyknave/pseuds/theslyknave
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>This is the only thing that came out of my brief stint as a human Equius in a Coffeeshop AU - pretend there's a legitimate reason that humans type with quirks, yeah?</p>
<p>(Eridan was tumblr user wweeniehutjunior)</p>
    </blockquote>





	Thinking Too Much

**Author's Note:**

> This is the only thing that came out of my brief stint as a human Equius in a Coffeeshop AU - pretend there's a legitimate reason that humans type with quirks, yeah?
> 
> (Eridan was tumblr user wweeniehutjunior)

\-- caligulasAquarium [CA] began trolling centaursTesticle [CT] \--

CA: wwhat is your dick size wwhen youre hard i must knoww right noww  
CT: D —> What in  
CT: D —> I hardly think that is any of your  
CT: D —> Why  
CT: D —> I believe that is my private business, and it sh001d quite simply stay that way  
CT: D —> E%cuse me Mr. Ampora, but that information is no concern of yours  
CA: ugh dont be sucha wwanker and just tell me i royally demand it or wwhatevver  
CT: D —> Hrrk  
CT: D —> No, I’m sorry, but that is privy to myself and  
CT: D —> And to any romantic partners I may have in the future

\-- centaursTesicle [CT] ceased trolling caligulasAquarium [CA] \--

_How someone with such an exquisite social standing could be so crass is infinitely perplexing. (Gosh darnit, today is laundry day; all of my towels are in the wash...) Attempting to use his superior status… simply inexcusable behoovior-_ behavior _, gosh_ fricking _dang everything-!_

crunchclang 

_... I'll have to replace that._

Another almost-completed prototype. Gone. 

_What is it Nepeta is always saying? Breathing exercises. Right._

Flustered, muttering to yourself all the while, you make your way into the laundry room (more of a laundry closet, really, but it suited your purposes). You switched the towels over from the washer into the dryer, cursing your lack of foresight for not doing it earlier. The load contained washcloths and bath-towels, too, but was mostly comprised of the white hand-towels you used to dab away at your sweat.

Darn hyperhidrosis.

Also, darn Eridan Ampora, too, for all his invasive questioning and the (rightfully, in your private opinion, though you sometimes hated yourself for it) conceited air with which he conducted himself. Darn the unprofessional purple streak in his hair.

Darn the way he held himself when he thought no one was watching, and darn the way he sometimes hid his mouth behind his scarf, so that his not-quite-aristocratic-but-still-quite-fetching nose peeked out over the blue striped fabric. Darn the way that his aforementioned dyed fringe began to fall in small locks from it’s careful gel mold as the day progressed. 

Darn the fact that you had no _gosh forsaken_ fresh towels!

Slamming the dryer door, you press the ‘on’ button agitatedly, moving to the kitchen as sweat beads along your hairline and under your armpits. With damp palms and one sharp motion, you yank a long line of paper towels towards you, ripping them from the roll around the ninth perforation.  
You steal back to your workshop, hitting the door against a spare part when you open it too wide, and make a mental note to tidy up later.  
You sit huffily back in your chair, with every intention to put the incident out of your mind. You need to see to fixing the part you just broke, with the (impressive, were you anyone else) dent in the metal siding. 

But your gaze falls on your measuring tools. More specifically, the ruler. 

And you look at the window. You look at the door. You sweat a little more.

And frick you, but you actually contemplate it. Finding the answer to Ampora’s question. 

You had never really cared before. That kind of thing wasn’t important to you. You were a sweaty, muscley, mouth-breathing freak who made people uncomfortable. The only person in the world who genuinely liked you was your best friend, and you would never want to betray or modify that incredibly special relationship. You came to terms with the thought that you would never find a romantic partner years ago. You didn’t need to impress anyone, if there really was anything to be impressed about. Personality counted, actions counted; not the size of one’s male anatomy.

You, quite honestly, never thought about it.

Until now.

Is this what men of yours and Ampora’s age cared about? Did every other man know the exact length like you knew how to calibrate many distinct parts of a robot so that they would move simultaneously with different objectives? Was this yet another thing you didn’t do normally, didn’t do right?

And why would Ampora want to know? For comparison? To mock you? Because he was (dare you even think it) interested?

You wipe away the sweat that has collected enough to begin rolling down your face, and you would wince at the abrasiveness of it as opposed to your normal towels if your other hand wasn’t twitching towards your waist.

It isn’t shameful, you tell yourself, as you twist the blinds shut and self-consciously close the door, even though you know Nepeta won’t be home for a few hours. It’s a perfectly normal human process, you think as you take off your shades and take your zipper into your mildly trembling hand. It flushes the system and keeps everything healthy. It’s a stress reliever and it keeps the cardiovascular system, nervous system, and reproductive system in shape.

You know this (you don’t want to admit how long you searched the internet to make sure this information was credible), and yet you still repeat it to yourself like a reassurance as your button pops open. Through the ordeal your hand has brushed against your penis several times, and is currently halfway to erection, pushing against your boxer-briefs.

Swallowing thickly, you push both your pants and underwear down to mid-thigh, and even though you’ve closed and locked the door you still turn away from it, hunching in on yourself. You give your dick a tentative, but purposeful stroke, and you shiver.

Your dark hair curtains your vision, hiding your face, and you feel a little safer. 

You take it into your hand now, a long, slow pump, and then again, this time teasing around the head as it emerges from the foreskin, with increasingly uneven breaths. 

Your other hand goes lower, sliding downwards and against the frenulum until it reaches the base, cups your testicles, and a surge of sweet pressure and heat seems to pool in your abdomen.

It is at this point that you realize that you are being entirely too clinical about this whole affair. 

_Just... enjoy it_ , you tell yourself.

You close your eyes and take and tremulous breath, and releasing it also lets out a breathy noise that you’d been holding back.

You speed up, your thumb following the line of a vein, ghosting over the opening at the end and smearing precum over the head. 

A drop of sweat is finally heavy enough to fall from its careful position on the tip of your nose, and you don’t even care. 

You moan and groan quietly, and your head is too heavy to hold up - it lolls down and to the side, jaw resting on your right collar bone, panting breath fanning hotly on your skin and making a stringy lock of hair flutter slightly. 

You hadn’t been imagining anyone this whole time, but for a moment you slip into fantasy, and it is no longer your own blunt, calloused fingers, but softer ones, more lithe and slender, but no less insistent; the breath on your chest was someone else’s, bent close to you and uncaring of your sweat; the heartbeat pulsing through you wasn’t yours, but a lover’s, held so close and so intertwined that it was unsure of where the both of you ended and the other began. 

For a split second, you see a pair of unguarded eyes like stars behind your eyelids.

Quickly as that, you remember something, and snap out of your delusion. A sharp blush comes high to your cheekbones (though, admittedly, your face was pretty flushed already), and you fumble for the ruler with your left hand, recalling the initial point of the exercise. 

You don’t know the exact measurement, because your hand is shaking and your hips have begun to involuntarily buck against nothing, but you see that it is between eight and nine inches and that’s good enough for you. At this point, you don’t care enough to find out the exact number of millimeters. 

(The ruler is dropped to the side and forgotten. Later it will be rolled over by the wheel of your chair and break, cheap plastic that it is. It’s more of a wonder that you didn’t break it before then.)

You reach your peak. You and completion rush towards each other and collide, the impact making your legs tremble, and that glorious pressure is even more magnificently released. 

You spend at least a minute and a half in a pleasant daze, thinking of absolutely nothing, running your fingers lazily and absentmindedly over your softening cock as you regain your normal breathing and heart rate. 

You come out of the afterglow to clean yourself up; first the semen, and then the sweat. You wonder briefly if you should take a shower, but then decide against it on the grounds that you are very tired. Usually you would never take a nap in the middle of the day (or at all, really), but you’ll make an exception. 

You shuffle to your bedroom and lay down bonelessly, the bed creaking under your sudden weight. You don’t bother with the sheets.

As you drift towards unconsciousness, you decide that you feel oddly content. Typically after masturbation, you are left guilty, ashamed, and only momentarily satisfied. You’re sure that you’ll feel one of those things when you wake up, you think without really thinking.

You do too much thinking.

You pull an extra pillow to your chest, curl around it, and fall asleep quickly and easily like you haven’t in a very long time.


End file.
